Sixpence & Whiskey (2 page)

3

Thank
the horned one.

My sister’s a stone-cold bitch, but I’m freaking thrilled to see Jett right now. She’s a witch, too. All four of us are.

Yup, Mother Goose had four daughters. I’m the youngest.

Turns out nursery rhymes are actually spells. That pretty illustrated children’s book everyone grew up with is the world’s biggest grimoire. My mother figured out long ago that simple meter and rhyme are the best tools for shaping magic. Mom’s brilliant, but nuts, whereas Jett is brilliant and badass.

My second oldest sister’s over a hundred years old, but named after Joan Jett. Mom got bored with the nineteenth century and skipped forward for a while around the time she got pregnant with Jett. She does that a lot, bounces back and forth in time. She’s a flibbertigibbet.

Mom, not Jett.

Jett has cropped black hair (dyed; she’s really a blond, like the rest of us) and looks a bit like her namesake.

She stalks toward us, hair flying like a tattered flag behind her. I can almost hear the cavalry music in my head. Though something by Five Finger Death Punch might be more apropos.

The gleaming hilt of a sword peeks over her shoulder as she kicks pieces of taconite out of her way. I can hear the raw bits of iron plopping into the water below one by one.
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.

“Jett, what an unexpected pleasure.” Georg’s face pales above his beard.

I don’t blame him. My sister is scary. Plus, she hates shifters—particularly the bear variety. She’s got this rug in her room, the softest damn pelt you ever felt. Rumor has it that it’s from an ex-lover. I can’t confirm or deny, but let’s just say Jett is not someone you want to fuck with. Like
ever.

She smiles at Georg, and I swear I feel him tremble. Six feet, six inches and two hundred odd pounds of shifter about to piss himself. It’d be funny if I wasn’t in the firing zone. I take a small step sideways, easing away from his hips, but that massive arm tightens at my waist. He straightens, unmindful that my toes are now dangling half a foot above the walkway.

“Let’s be reasonable,
sisko
.
I do not want a family squabble, but—”

“Reasonable, Kivistö? Reasonable isn’t kidnapping a woman who doesn’t want you, and squabble isn’t the word for what’s gonna happen if you don’t release my sister in
five
…”

“Ajax, Dominic!” Georg is backing up as he calls out, coming alarmingly close to the edge of the pier.

Jett cocks her head and winks. “Were those the two red-headed ones? Red is such a power color, and really warms a room, don’t you agree, Sephie?”

I nod enthusiastically, because she’s kidding. I mean, I
think
she’s kidding. Georg isn’t in on the joke.

He starts to sputter when she says, “
Four
…”

“Stephen?” His voice has taken on a note of disbelief.

“Black hair, kinda cute, right? The one who’s almost as big as you? Well, you know what they say, the harder they fall and all that.
Three
…
two
…”

Her smile sweetens as she steps closer, her boot heels striking sharply against the concrete. I swear she nails metal to the soles to get that creepy sound.

Georg shoves me at her with a curse, expecting Jett to catch me. Instead, she wrinkles her nose and steps aside, ignoring me as I fall hard, skinning my knees.

Jett points a finger at Georg just as he tumbles backwards off the pier and into the harbor. If I remember right it’s about fifteen feet to the….

Splash
.

Jett looks over the edge for a moment, then back at me. “Bears can swim, yeah?”

“Do we care?” I get to my feet stiffly.

“I thought you might.” She shakes her head and steps away from the edge. “You sure can pick them, baby sis. At least Frost had some balls.”

Yup, my sister is definitely a bitch.
 

We’re back home in a flash. Literally. ’Cause Jett can apparate, à la Harry Potter. Just disappear and reappear somewhere else at will, even with a passenger in tow. It’s kinda like sliding down that wicked-looking tunnel in
Doctor Who
—pretty and full of purple and green lightning. But I’ve never seen David Tennant in there.

More’s the pity.

We don’t really know why Jett can do it and not the rest of us. Even Mom can’t do it. But Mom can travel in time, so I guess they’re even. I stumble through the doorway behind Jett. Still reeling and cold from my encounter with Jack.

Why his deceit shocks me, I don’t know. Like he said himself, I should’ve learned not to turn my back on that man a
long
damn time ago. It’s like there is some stubborn part of me that refuses to accept that he is what he is. No matter how thoroughly Jack proves otherwise.

The words I heard earlier echo softly through my head in his rough velvet purr.

I’m sorry, princess
.

Maybe I imagined him saying that.

Maybe I didn’t.

Goddamn you, Jack.
 

Carly is painting in the hallway when we appear in the foyer. Her hair is up; rose-gold curls falling out of a messy bun in soft corkscrews here and there. There is a smudge of yellow paint on her nose. Carly is freaking adorable. Her paintings are less so. Not because they aren’t good. They’re hella good. Too good.

I eye the mural she’s working on now. It stretches the length of the hallway. Bears cavort and frolic in a pastoral woodland scene. I’m not feeling particularly friendly toward bears at the moment, but these look cuddly enough at first glance. Then I notice they seem to be snapping playfully at glittering fairies. Their teeth gleam like bone. One big specimen is crunching up a struggling sprite dressed in blue with obvious relish. Okay, so maybe cuddly and pastoral aren’t really appropriate adjectives.

The fairy’s tiny fingers extend from between those teeth like a prisoner reaching out from the bars of her cell. Her mouth is open wide in a scream that sounds tinny and unreal, ramping up the whole disturbing vibe.

That’s Carly’s freak gift—the things she paints kind of come to life.
Kind of
because it doesn’t
always
happen—and usually not completely—or for long. Thank the horned one, they tend to stay confined to the surface they’re painted on, but sometimes they’ve been known to get free.

“You like it, Seph?”

“It’s great, sissie.” I sidle down the hallway, keeping one eye on the bear whose massive head turns to track my movement. His eyes are deep and brown with gold highlights. Just like Georg’s. I watch him swallow the still screaming fairy whole, repressing a shudder. The bear seems to wink as I slink out of sight.

Jett trails me into the dining room. “We really should put a stop to her painting in the house.”

I roll my eyes. Like the rest of us, Jett has a soft spot for Carly a mile wide. Nobody is gonna tell her no, even if it means having the occasional nightmare wandering about. Though if that bear gets free, I may change my mind.

Our house is in Congdon Park, an area of Duluth that used to mean old money and history. Now it mostly means genteel turn-of-the-century homes renovated into apartments for the college kids attending UMD. Ours is one of the few single family ones left. We’ve left the architecture pretty much as is, minus knocking out a few walls here and there, Carly’s ever-changing murals and the odd magical enhancement.

The dining room is long and narrow, with soaring plaster ceilings (a bright idea in a town that has had recordable snow in every month except August), but it’s warm enough thanks to the roaring fireplace at one end.

Flames crackle merrily, but otherwise it’s quiet. Ana is rearranging the mantelpiece when we enter, lining up her collection of carvings in a tidy row with her typical OCD analness. Her slim frame is held with ruthlessly correct posture, not the slightest give in that delicate spine.

My eldest sister, Ana. Or Anastasia, if we’re being proper—which she always is. She’s blond like me, only her hair is even paler than mine, and she’s got actual curls instead of just waves. No pink streak, of course. She’s a major ice princess and as much of a hard-ass as Jett.

She’s also quite the master carver, as her sculptures attest, even if her medium is rather morbid. Ana carves things out of bone. Human bone mostly, though shifters have been known to make the cut. Her carvings are tiny, but perfectly formed. The old woman in her shoe house; kids hanging out of every window, blackbirds trying to escape their pie, Jack (not my Jack) jumping over the candlestick. Like Carly’s paintings, Ana’s art has a savage edge to it. The old woman has a belt in her hand, the blackbirds have teeth and Jack’s on fire and screaming.

We’re a happy, well-adjusted bunch, I know.

“Any word from Mom?” I ask the question out of habit, and maybe some latent OCD of my own. I don’t expect any change in the answer. Mom’s been MIA for over three years now.

I know she scries for Mom every day, but so far nada. Mom’s blocking her—or something is.

Ana’s a seer, a psychic of sorts. It’s called remote viewing. With a bit of focus she can direct her energy and magic to a certain person or place and bring it into view on any reflective surface, with the ability to watch everything going on at said point as it happens.

Like Google Earth, only in real time and with much better graphics.

“No.” Ana turns from the mantel to give me an impatient look, examining me from head to toe, and as always, finding me wanting. I try not to care. We can’t all be the perfect sister, and god knows, I’ve never even been close. “You look a fright. Slumming again, Persephone?”

Jett loiters around the edges of the room, indifferent as always, but willing to kick the hornet’s nest for the hell of it. “More like Kivistö again. He’s upgraded from serial stalker to kidnapper.”

Ana’s expression goes from mildly irritated to calculating. “Why is she here then, Jett, instead of at the Den? You have a new Spidey sense I’m not aware of?” I was wondering this myself. How the hell did Jett know I was in trouble?

Ana and I look at Jett, who folds her arms and gives us the evil eye, both of them, from under her dark fringe.

“
I got a call on my cell, telling me I might want to check out the taconite dock for a little action. I was bored so I figured, what the hell? And there was Seph, being felt up by bear boy.” Jett scowls at me as if this was a disappointment, then brightens. “Taking out his guard was fun, though.”

I want to ask if she really hurt any of the bruins, then decide I better not. With Jett, you never know, and sometimes it’s better that way.

“Lucky for you Jett took pity.” Ana shakes her regal head. “Why is it always
you
, Seph?”

I want to argue this point, but she’s right. It
is
always me.

Instead, I redirect. “Georg got Jack to zap me. Freeze my magic.” Any winter elemental can slow down witch magic, but my susceptibility to Jack means he can put mine on ice, for awhile anyway. I can feel the frozen hole where my magic is hiding, curled up and snoozing. It makes me twitchy.

“Frost is back?” Ana raises an eyebrow as if she is nothing more than mildly curious. But her mouth tightens and a flicker of something I can’t place passes through her eyes before they go smooth and blue again. “Kivistö and he are working together?”

“I think it was more along the lines of a one-time deal. I saw money, or something anyway, exchange hands.”

“They’re
trading
you now?” Even Ana’s curls tremble indignantly. “By the horned one, you sure can pick them, Persephone.” In my present mood this pisses me off more than it should. It’s not my fault men are …
men.
Of course, my men do tend to be worse than your average asshole.

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Ana. After all, no one else wants to. Might be why
you
don’t have trouble with men.”

Ana goes white. I stomp out to Jett’s impressed whistle and my own pulse pounding in my ears. It was a low blow, but if anyone deserves it, it’s Ana. I may be the baby sister, but Carly gets all the love. I’m surprisingly okay with that, most of the time. Only right now I’m pissed, shaky and scared. Just once I could use a little of that love.

Sometimes family sucks.

4

The
first real snow does something to Duluth. I mean, other than making people drive like freaking idiots.

It’s
Minnesota,
for god’s sake. It does this every year, people. But without fail, you get the geniuses who stomp on their brakes at every swirling flake. Or worse, the ones who have to prove the size of their balls by barreling along like it’s no big, until they end up in a ditch. Usually taking a few people with them.

Other than the mad party on the roadways, the white stuff turns the town—which is damn pretty most of the year anyway—into something positively fairytale-ish. I grin.
Oh, if most of its residents only knew…

Actually, from my current point of view, on a bench in Canal Park the morning after my encounter with Jack and Georg, the city rises above the lake in sparkling tiers. Like a wedding cake decked out in silver and icicles, canted just enough to give it a certain
je ne sais quoi
. The idea of weddings makes me frown, so I squint my eyes deliberately. There. Now it looks like the whole ridiculous confection is going to slide sideways off the hill and down the gullet of some as-yet-unseen lake monster.

The thought makes me giggle. There are monsters in the lake, after all. At least one.
And he’s fine as hell…

“Giving the bear the slip put you in a good mood, I see.”

Speaking of fine men.

“You here for round two, Jack?” I get to my feet, listening closely to the lap of the big lake behind me. If Jack uses his magic here, the lake will tell me first. Jack’s magic is pure elemental, which always disturbs the big blue. Handy warning system, if you’re not in a fucking train yard, like last night.

His smile tries for easy, but I see the hardness around the edges. His collar is pulled up against the wind from the lake, despite the fact Jack is never going to feel that particular chill, or any other. Cold is something he wields, not something that touches him.

The dark brown leather brushes the sexy shadow on his jaw. I ignore the sexy, noting the tightness instead. He’s not nearly as relaxed as he’d have me believe.
Fool me once.
Or half a dozen times.

You know, whatever.

He reaches for me and for a second, I freeze. He only brushes back a bit of hair the lake wind has dancing in front of my eyes. That rebellious streak that drives Ana batshit.

“Pink.” His lips twist as he tucks it behind my ear. “Why am I not surprised?”

Suppressing a shiver, I back away to spread my arms and lift my hands. Murmuring under my breath,
“Sing a song of sixpence…”

His eyebrows rise. Jack’s supposedly immune to my magic—after that awful spell he laid all those years ago—but neither of us have ever tested its limits. From the look on his face, he’s not real eager to start. “Easy, princess. I’m not here looking for a fight. That thing with Georg was a one-time gig.”

I’d already guessed that, but I ignore him, curling the rhyme around myself like a security blanket. It’s my favorite. Different rhymes work differently; the simple rising and falling cadences shaping the magic into unique patterns, but me and my sisters all have our favorites. This is mine.

The words pull the energy into bands only I can see. Lavender and gold they encircle me in a glittering web of light. It won’t keep him from using his magic on me, but hopefully it’ll give him a nasty headache if he tries. At the very least, it makes me feel better.

Jack’s magic and mine are not the same. Not even close. He’s an elemental, a creature born of magic, like all fairies and sprites and gnomes. Witches are a horse of a different color, along with werewolves and vampires. We merely stumbled onto magic—stole it some would say.

Of course, I got the beggar’s portion where all that is concerned. I don’t even have any cool powers, like my sisters. No doubt that’s why Jack targeted me, the low-hanging fruit. The old pain burns in my stomach, but I shake it off, concentrating on my magic.

Jack just smiles that tight smile, watching me cast impassively. After all, we both know it’s probably just for show.

When the spell is complete, I stomp away from the boardwalk without looking back. He follows me all the way to Amazing Grace. I know because my spine tingles with every step I take through the parking lot, across the street, down the steps and into the warm, heavenly smelling bakery. I get in line. So does Jack. I’m so hyperaware of him, I swear the fine hairs on the back of my neck are quivering.
Damn the man.

His voice is quiet in my ear, rich, with that touch of a rasp that makes me shiver. “I had to do it, Seph.”

I don’t get why he’s even here. Since when does Jack give a shit what I think of him? It unsettles me.

He
unsettles me.

“Whatever, Jack. It hardly comes as a surprise that you’d sell me off to be kidnapped, and god knows what else.” Bad enough he pops back in after years and years, but to sell me off to
Georg
? Jack hates Georg. Georg hates Jack. They have a mutual hate thing going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve whipped out their dicks at some point and had a literal pissing contest.

It stings he’d breach that to hand me over. My eyes burn and I clench my jaw. I promised myself a long time ago, no more tears over Jack and his bullshit. When had I reverted back to such an emotional pussy?

Oh, yeah, the second he turned up in that stupid train yard.

I know he’s Jack Frost and all, but the coldness of his next words nearly coat my ear in hoar frost. “Georg would never hurt you
.
I know you’re lovers, Seph. I’ve known for a while now.” My fingers tighten on the counter as his words settle like a hard fist in my gut. It should’ve been obvious, but for the first time it really sinks in that Jack must’ve heard about Georg and me. I wonder who told him. I wonder how he felt.

I wonder why the hell it bothers me. Stomping on the urge to tell him Georg and I’ve been over for almost a year, I place my order before turning to whisper viciously, “Here’s a news flash, Jack—lovers can do all sorts of horrible things to each other.”

“Yes, they can. I taught you that, didn’t I, princess?” Those beautiful lips press together as he looks down at me. “But Georg is far more honorable than I am, and he believes himself in love. He’d
never truly harm you.” Icy green eyes rake my body from the fuzzy black beanie on my head to the bright-pink Uggs on my feet. “And if he had…”

His words trail off as the barista hands me my coffee and muffin. Jack takes two sweeteners from the counter, one pink and one white, and hands them to me absently as he pulls me aside. I look down at the tiny envelopes in my hand.

An inexplicable warmth bubbles and froths inside me that no coffee invented could duplicate.

In a flash, I am back here, ten years ago, sitting at one of the little tables by the door with Jack. Watching him laugh and ask me if I’d like one of the blue packets, too, just so I can poison myself across the board. The spring sun is dancing over his hair, playing off the ice of his eyes as he leans forward to brush a few sugary grains from my lips. The warm roughness of his thumb makes me suck in a breath, but it’s nothing to the heat of his lips as he kisses me.

Our first real kiss.

But what is real with Jack?

I shiver and with a blink, I’m back in the now. Jack remembers how I take my goddamn coffee. So fucking what?

I remind myself who I’m dealing with here.

King of winter, Son of winds.

Bastard of godlike proportions.

I open the lid and dump my sweetener and sugar in, stirring briskly with one of those little swizzle sticks, before licking it clean. I do my best to ignore Jack, but as he’s looming, that’s impossible. Finally I bite.

“So, if he
had
, then what?” Jack blinks at the question, looking somewhat distracted as I pull the swizzle stick from my mouth and toss it in the trash. I try again. “If Georg had hurt me,
what
, Jack?”

“Oh.” He runs a hand through that thick hair of his as his eyes trail slowly from my lips back to my eyes. “I’d have fucking killed him.”

My mouth falls open.

Jack’s brows draw together. For a second I wonder if he meant to say that, but then he gives me a cool look, those chestnut waves ruffling back down over his forehead. “Surprised, princess?”

Not really, because I think get it. Probably better than he does.

Swallowing, I push the cobweb of memories aside to focus on that smile. The smile that broke my goddamn heart. “Nope. I understand perfectly.”

I wrap my now icy fingers around the to-go cup and push past him. Quick as the son of winds that he is, Jack grabs my wrist.

“What do you understand?”

I lift my eyes to his. “That you don’t want anyone else stepping on your toes. Because hurting me is
your
prerogative, isn’t it, Jack?”

His eyes widen. His grip tightens, then just as quickly he drops my hand. Jack doesn’t follow me this time, but the ring of the bells on the door isn’t quite loud enough to drown the low reply that does.

“That’s right, princess. And don’t ever forget it.”
 

Twenty minutes later I pull in front of another coffee shop on the other side of town. Not for more caffeine, but because my bestie works here. She scowls at me over the bar as I walk in, giving my cup and paper bag the stink eye. “You keep bringing the competition in here and I’m gonna get fired.”

“Nah. Beaner’s and Amazing Grace aren’t in competition, Sy. Beaner’s has the best coffee, but Amazing’s got the best muffins, so sometimes I gotta hit that. Simple facts.”  I give her a salute with my cup before taking a sip. “Mm-mmm. Their coffee ain’t half bad, either.”

Syana Norgaard and me have been friends since our freshman year of high school. She’s the nicest person I know—except when it comes to me. She lives to give me shit and I like it. Letting loose her inner bitch on me seems to give Sy the ability to rain sunshine on everyone else.

Like I’m her metaphorical whipping girl or something.

She flicks a towel at me over the counter, knocking my beanie lopsided and making me yelp. Okay, maybe not so metaphorical. I rub at my smarting ear and stick my tongue out at her. It’s weird relationship, I grant you. But it works for us. I eye her as I sip my coffee. Sy and Seph. The dynamic duo. We couldn’t look more different if we tried. I’m low to the ground, with a backside that begs to be slapped with a wide-load sticker. A blond, four-eyed sexpot librarian-type. Sy is slim, tall and graceful. Brunette with a chin-length cut that highlights her perfect jawline, elegant neck and delicate little ears. There’s something earnest about her beauty. Earnest and otherworldly. She looks like an elf by way of the Peace Corps. She’s full-on human, though.  There’s no such thing as elves. At least I’m pretty sure.

“Jack’s back.”

She’s buffing the counter with the rag she hit me with, doing a little shimmy to the music on the radio. “Isn’t that a horror flick? Nineties? Fairly awful. James Spader. Who was pretty yum back in the day, but—” Then her face pales. “Oh, you mean,
that
Jack. Your Jack.” In an instant, she’s around the counter, but she doesn’t reach for me, and she doesn’t ask if I’m ok.

Because, duh,
not
okay, and we’re not exactly an over-emoting pair.

Sy just gives me a look—one look—but it settles the swirling Jell-O of fear and worry inside of me enough that I take my first deep breath since Jack showed up.

“He’s not
my
Jack.” But of course, I think of him that way, too. Just shows we’re both mental.

“Holy Hannah. It’s been ages, Seph—”

Almost four years since his last appearance, in fact. Sy doesn’t know that—no one does. She thinks it’s been at least eight since I saw him last.

“—what does he want?”

“How the hell should I know?” I take off my beanie and run a hand through my hair, which clings to my fingers like corn silk, full of static.

“Is he still, you know, hot as fuck all?”

“He’s a freaking FTC, Sy. Of course he’s still hot. He looks exactly the same.” Jack is perpetually stuck in his prime, the son of a bitch.

I scowl, which Sy returns with interest, snapping me again with her towel. This time on the ass. Of course, she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Quit pouting. You’re hot as fuck all, too. Maybe you’re not seventeen anymore, but you got it going on. Enough to make that SOB suffer every time he looks at you.” Her fierceness for me turns my frown upside down, even if she’s dead wrong about Jack doing any kind of suffering over me. “And once your b-day gets here, you’ll be officially FTC, too.”

Twenty-seven is the magic number in the magical world. Even for elementals, that’s the age when they stop growing older. And for witches, natural werewolves and others that are born mortal, that’s the birthday when near-immortality kicks in. I say
near,
because there’s always a way to die—just degrees of how easily you do it. And FTCs are a violent, creative lot. Population control is never gonna be an issue, believe me.